


habits of companionship

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Series: by the inscrutable decree of Providence [7]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (implied) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beholding Avatar Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, But it never ends, Domestic Fluff, Kidfic- But Make it Eldritch, Lonely Avatar Martin Blackwood, M/M, No beta we kayak like Tim, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, avatars gonna avatar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:34:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28564440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: Or: 5 times Jon and Martin fail to go on a date, and 1 time they succeed.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: by the inscrutable decree of Providence [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1973212
Comments: 24
Kudos: 64





	habits of companionship

**Author's Note:**

> _Disclaimer:_ Nope.
> 
>  _Author’s Note:_ Martin vowing to murk Jonah _would_ have been a great place to let the series end, huh? But look. _Look._ Sometimes, you just need more pregnant Jon in your life. And if no one else is providing, you gotta write it for yourself. 
> 
> _Warnings:_ Fluff with a wee bit of smut. Monster boyfriends to monster husbands. Avatars gonna avatar. Trans (and for a while pregnant) Jon. Includes a throwback to **“overflow upon the outward world”** vignette #17, as well as tiny references to vignette #39 and **“recognize a kindred wilderness.”** Shoutout to the “sweater thief Jon” audio and Twilight Abyss’ mentions of Cookie Monster. I am really trying to remain consistent with Pearl’s timeline/age, but dates are hard. Be kind. No beta, crap edits.
> 
> Title taken from The Scarlet Letter quote, “It contributes greatly towards a man's moral and intellectual health, to be brought into habits of companionship with individuals unlike himself, who care little for his pursuits, and whose sphere and abilities he must go out of himself to appreciate.” Which, taken as a whole, is not the _most_ appropriate? But man, I saw those three words and went, “that’s enough time on goodreads, I think.”

\---

habits of companionship

( _or: 5 times Jon and Martin fail to go on a date, and 1 time they succeed_ )

\---

1\. There is more to safety than locked doors.

Martin knows this. Has known this for years. He knew this before Helen, before Michael. He knew this before barricading himself from Jane Prentiss for two weeks with nothing but tenacity and a pantry of canned peaches to keep him alive. Sometimes safety takes the form of a secure office, or labyrinthine tunnels, or a remote cottage in the Scottish Highlands, but there is a fine line between ‘protected room’ and ‘prison cell.’

In Martin’s experience, that line is often toed by the people (or people-adjacent entities) with whom one is boarding. And in that sense, at least, he isn’t too worried; Martin is very aware of how Jon acts when he would rather not be in Martin’s presence, thank you. Never mind that it is Martin himself, these days, who is more inclined to ask for a little personal space. 

( _You are what you eat_ , Martin supposes. It is a thought he keeps to himself, tightening his hands around both of Jon’s.) 

“All of this to say,” he concludes, speaking with the grim determination of a lawyer making his case to an unpersuadable judge, “we can’t just… hide in here, sweetheart. Not forever. Not _always_. I mean, we can _live_ here forever and always, sure. If that’s what makes you happy, I’m all for that. I really am. But… Jon, you haven’t left the house for weeks now. Months. Being safe for your body isn’t the same thing as being safe for your health, or safe for your mind.” 

Sat beside his fiancé on the lumpy couch, Jon’s frown steadily deepens, his brow furrowed to match the scars, folds, and tattered lines on the palms that Martin’s thumbs are tracing oh-so-gently. Jon does not look pleased, per se, but neither has he started to argue. Martin may not technically be aligned to the Eye, but he still Knows an opening when he Sees one. 

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” he presses, determined in his cheerfulness. “A day on the town. A proper date. We’ll say hi to the good cows, visit the bookstore, maybe even drop by Aila’s to pick up something nice to… er, not eat. But you get the idea.” Their situation is still new enough to not be _funny_ , but Martin chortles nonetheless, trying to preemptively defuse whatever tension remains in Jon. When the corner of his fiancé’s mouth threatens to twitch even further downward, Martin tips forward just far enough to tack it back in place with a kiss. “It will be fun, I promise. And we’ll avoid all the people we can. But on the off chance we do see someone, well… It’s still cold enough for the downy jacket to be appropriate. If you wear that, you won’t need to endure any stupid questions.”

With adoration and reverence and perpetual, ever-escalating awe, Martin takes the tangled love-knot of their fingers and places them atop Jon’s belly. At four-and-a-half-months, the swell of it flurries beneath their touch: a development that has yet to lose its magic. Martin believes it never will. 

“Well, Jon?” he prompts. “What do you say?” 

“I… Hm.” Jon chews his tongue. Hesitates. Until abruptly— finally— it occurs to Martin that his fiancé looks _guilty_ more than he does apprehensive. 

Fog-dark eyes shimmer a luminescent green. 

“Jon,” Martin scolds. The name jumps between them like static, and his demand is low and inexorable: “ _Talk to me._ ” 

“I’ve got _terrible_ cravings,” Jon blurts, much to Martin’s surprise. And to his own, it seems. But now that the truth is out, there is no reason to hide the details; deflating, Jon drops his forehead against Martin’s and sighs, “Dammit. I’m sorry, Martin. I— it’s not fair. You’re doing so much for the baby and me. You’re keeping us incredibly well fed, you really are, it’s just— well. Loneliness has… it has a distinct flavor. And it’s— it’s very filling! Very… very nutritious? As far as Statements go? Frankly, a steady diet of Loneliness is _just fine_. Baby and I don’t _need_ anything else. I mean that. And yes, I _swear_ I would tell you otherwise. But… But if we go out… That is to say, you and I have sort of opened the floodgates, as it were? In terms of… guiltless eating? So I’m not sure I would be able to stop myself from… uh. Hunting.”

A pause. A beat. An itty-bitty flutter somewhere deep inside Jon, which Martin can feel through Jon’s jumper and his stomach’s straining flesh. 

“…I see,” Martin says, distantly startled by his own composure. Collected and calm, he turns this revelation over in his mind, considering the confession from multiple angles. Takes care to kiss Jon as he does so— on his temple, on his eyelids, on his nose, on his nape—, to distract his fiancé from unnecessary moping while he formulates a new plan. It takes a few minutes, but Jon appears well-soothed by the time Martin is ready. 

“All right. All right, that makes sense. How about this, then,” he proposes, petting Jon’s bump. “How about we drive into the city? The proper, downtown city. We’ll find a side street coffee shop, and we can… let’s call it ‘people watch.’ When you see somebody you’d like to talk to, I’ll invite them to join us for lunch. As a treat. Sound good?”

Jon gazes at Martin with a passion so ravenously bright that it lights up his whole face. Quite literally. “Yes.” 

“Then we can go shopping for clothes that actually fit you,” Martin adds, smile sliding from sweet to sly. His fiancé’s reaction is as visceral as it is instantaneous.

“ _No._ ” 

“Fine then, Mister Sweater Thief: we’ll go shopping for new clothes for _me_ , both of us fully aware that you intend to steal them for yourself. Better?” 

“Mm. That is agreeable.”

-

2\. Martin has barely looped the tie around his neck when Jon grabs it and _yanks_.

“ _Jesu_ —” Martin yelps, wide-eyed and half-choked, as his lips are marionetted to a place that Jon can reach. Whatever else Martin might have wanted to say is cut off by sharp teeth, a sharper gasp; he squeaks, ears scalded pink, when an insatiable Jon nips and bites and nibbles kisses into his throat, pulling noises from Martin’s lips that he greedily gobbles down. “Jo— wha— _oh._ Oh— _Fuck._ ”

“Yes,” Jon whimpers, his moan meaningful. Scarred fingers scrabble at the dress shirt buttons that Martin had only recently fastened. “Right now, if you don’t mind.” 

“You— _now?_ ” Held, herded, and helpless, Martin does not resist being dragged towards the bed by his heavily pregnant fiancé, but does bemusedly point out, “Weren’t we going to go— Wh-what about the sh—?”

“ _Right now,_ ” Jon reiterates, desperate, a shaky hand guiding Martin’s beneath his smock and between his legs. There is absolutely nothing human about the noise Jon makes when Martin brushes against his emptiness, palm smearing the wet that has been steadily dripping blisters down his thighs. All things considered, that does stand to follow. “’M sorry, _sorry_ , I know we had tickets,” Jon groans in Martin’s ear, simultaneously guiding and grinding against him, “but my d-damn hormones, I— I can’t— _ngh, God,_ Martin, _please_ — I _can’t wait._ "

It is a good thing that neither of them really needs to breathe, because Martin no longer has any air in his lungs. 

“ _Christ_ ,” he wheezes, the word punched out as shaking fingers push in. Three slip inside Jon without a modicum of resistance, and Martin is profoundly grateful that he had already been manhandled atop their mattress. He knows what it feels like when his knees give out. Oh Lord. Oh fuck. “Okay. _Okay_. Okay, sure. This is— This is fine, too. T-totally— yup. Cool. Change of plans.”

“ _Martin_.”

That is all the encouragement Martin needs to put his mouth to better use.

-

3\. It isn’t an exceptionally exciting plan. 

Martin admits that. Knows that. And that’s fine, because it doesn’t need to be. It physically _couldn’t_ be, given how far along Jon is. Which isn’t to say that they had not been looking forward to their picnic outing— they had. It is merely that, however romantic a short stroll into the heather to meet a victim of Loneliness sounds, the brand of anticipation it garners is _not_ the sort that has someone waking up _this_ early. 

“Jon…?” Martin mumbles, muzzy and muffled where he is pressed against Jon’s back. Jon can be a violent sleeper— they both can, in fairness— but Martin has never felt him move like _this_ before. It is an insight that spills like frozen water through the tube of Martin’s spine: a shivering chill that shakes him to full wakefulness. He could almost believe he _sees_ vapors rising from those places where their bodies meet: ice-cold adrenaline turned to mist by the friction-heat of every muscle in Jon’s torso drawing tight beneath his skin. 

“…oh,” Jon whispers, soft in the pre-dawn light. “I, um. I think… I think I’m going into labor.”

-

4\. “We’ve changed our minds.” 

Basira arches an eyebrow, not looking particularly impressed. Then again, Basira never looks particularly impressed.

“I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s really not,” Martin swears, trying to wave his hands in a dismissive fashion, rather than a nervous one. The fact that he could overpower and eternally condemn his former co-worker, should the need arise, is not lost on him; it simply does not make Basira’s ceaseless stare any less intimidating. “It’s us. It’s _totally_ us. We, er. We thought it would— like. Be okay? To spend some time apart from Pearl? I mean, she’s. She’s five months, soon. But— um. Today isn’t. It isn’t a good day. As it. Turns out.”

Void-black eyes narrow beneath the shadow of Basira’s hijab. If there was ever a time that Martin understood the Beholding’s fondness for her, it is now. 

“We _do_ trust you. We do,” Martin hears himself quickly assure. Ramble. He is definitely rambling. “This isn’t about— I realize that things have been— but you promised that you would take care of Pearl for the evening, and Jon and I one-thousand percent believe that you would. And that you would do an amazing job, too.” 

“Sure,” Basira drawls, impassive. Even so, her stare _does_ loose a fraction of its former harshness. If Martin didn’t know any better, he might have said she’d been on the cusp of offense. “Whatever. If you two decide not to go out, that’s fine. No skin off my back. But it took me an age to get out here, and I refuse to have wasted my time by just turning around and _leaving_ again.” 

“Oh, um. Yeah. That’s— that’s fair,” Martin acknowledges, though he isn’t quite sure how to remedy the issue. It’s not like he can do much about a commute that has already happened. In his befuddlement, he takes to wringing his hands, rather than waving them. “S-Sorry again. The whole afternoon has been a bit…. much. Mad. We would have called, to save you the trouble—”

“Martin.”

“—but service out here is spotty on the best of days, and—”

“Martin.”

“—you rarely answer your cell phone _anyways_ , so—” 

“ _Martin_ ,” Basira snaps, exasperation overpowering her usual façade of stoicism. It is only when she adjusts the bag hanging off of her shoulder that Martin notices how remarkably _large_ it is, bulging in odd places with new board books and old stuffed animals. She glares at him before he can make a comment, booted toes tapping impatiently against the stoop. “Just let me in the house to play with your damn baby.”

-

5\. Pearl is thirteen months old and infatuated with Cookie Monster.

“She has two fathers,” Jon groans into the tabletop, “and her first word isn’t going to be ‘dada’ or ‘papa.’ It’s going to be ‘cookie,’ I _know_ it.” 

Martin snorts. “Lower case or capital K?” he asks, trying and failing to hide his growing smirk behind the kettle. Preparing tea is always a good guise with which to mask emotions, though in this case Jon does not appear fooled. 

“Both,” his husband pouts. “Neither. I can’t actually tell the future.” 

“Shall we bet on it, then?” Martin teases, stamping a kiss to Jon’s crown before passing him his mug. “Ten quid says our spawn prefers a monstrous muppet to her monstrous sires.” 

“Oh, sure. Why not? My heart will already be broken. May as well break the bank, too.”

Martin snickers more openly this time as he sinks into the kitchen’s other adult-sized seat, tea cradled and attentions joining Jon’s upon the floor. Upon Pearl, who is having the absolute time of her life playing in the cupboards. The box of chocolate biscuits that Martin had purchased for their dinnertime guests is clasped between her pudgy palms, and Pearl is making quite the maraca out of it. At least, when she is not drumming it over her toy Cookie Monster’s worn blue head. 

In honesty, Martin does not care what Pearl’s first word winds up being. “Dada,” “Papa,” “kitty,” “cookie”— any of these would be fine by him. She will be learning all the words, eventually; what does the order matter? If anything, it gladdens Martin to think that his child is already so well-versed in feelings and various iterations of love that she feels she has a choice when it comes to deciding what to announce first. So what if she chooses a food? Food is a love language, isn’t it? Certainly “love” is what is on Martin’s mind whenever he watches Jon animate the Cookie Monster plush, pantomiming eating Pearl’s tummy and sending the baby into fits of screeching giggles. 

(Certainly “love” explains much of what their diet has become.)

“Kkkthpppph!” Pearl gurgles, swaying to the music of two dozen processed desserts becoming dust. With inelegant hands, she adds the box to her Tupperware tower, thrashing with glee when the whole of it falls down. “Ooo-kh,” she tells Ensign, who is curled close to her chubby legs and affectionately tolerating her attention. “Geen, coo!” 

Beaming, Jon rests his cheek atop his crossed arms. He is the epitome of tenderness, like this— a gift wrapped in an oversized, stolen sweater—, and Martin loves him— loves _them_ — so much it makes his chest ache. 

(Sometimes, Martin still speculates how much of that pain is sentiment, and how much of it is the Lonely rebelling against said sentiment. He never entertains the thought for long. But today, it does serve to remind him that—)

“Oh. It’s the 24th.”

“What?” An odd expression twists Jon’s features as he straightens from his slouch, turning to face Martin. It isn’t dismay, exactly, but neither is it far removed. “It isn’t.”

“It _is_ ,” Martin snorts, having dug out his phone to confirm his realization. “See? Right there in black and white. Or, er. Whatever the digital equivalent is. We’ve officially been together for two years. Happy anniversary, love.”

“Ah. Y-yes. Happy… Happy anniversary, Martin.” 

Jonathan Blackwood-Sims is many miraculous and terrible things; a good liar is not one of them. Not really. His disappointment is obvious even as he tries to smile. Immediately, Martin hates himself for having said anything at all, and were he still the same man he was when they first met, he would have left things at that— would have quietly stewed in his own self-loathing for the rest of the night. Maybe even the rest of the week. 

But he has changed. Jon has changed. So Martin places his hand atop one of his husband’s and allows his expression to change, concern and hurt manifesting in his voice. “What’s the matter?” 

No compulsion is needed. Jon crumbles faster than the biscuits in Pearl’s box. 

“I intended to do something special for you,” he admits, cheeks burning with a mortifying mixture of embarrassment and shame. “I wanted to take you out to celebrate. But I— well, between babyproofing the house and the day-to-day insanity of childcare, I completely lost track of time. It’s a poor excuse, I know, and I’m so sorry. You deserve… you deserve so much better than that. After all you’ve given me, I—”

Martin interrupts with a touch to Jon’s cheek. 

“No,” he hushes, earnest. Insistent, squeezing the fingers that Jon tucks beneath his own. “This is all I want. This is everything. This is _perfect._ ” 

“But—”

“ _This is perfect,_ ” Martin reiterates, leaning close to kiss his husband. To smooth the worries from his brow. To feel the tickle of his goatee, and his breath against his lips, and to comfort him, promise him, tell him— 

“ _Coo’ie!_ ” 

Pearl trills, a myriad of preternatural eyes snapping wide in wonderment as the package she had been slamming into Cookie Monster suddenly bursts, showering the kitchen in a storm of dry chocolate morsels. Delighted, the baby picks up an awkward fistful of broken biscuits— smashing them into smaller pieces in her efforts to get to her feet— and toddles over to her fathers, the ruined sweets congealing to her extended hands. “Dada, coo’ie!” 

Jon gawps at Pearl, teary-eyed and speechless. Martin’s grin is so wide, he cannot stop laughter from spilling out. Could not stop it if he wanted to. Not if he tried. 

“Now this is perfect,” Martin says, “ _and_ you owe me ten quid.”

-

+1. “Right-o, time to say goodbye!” 

“Yes, of course. Just as soon as I—” Jon begins, reaching weakly out, but Georgie is having none of it. Onto her shoulders the two-and-a-half-year-old is swung, where all but her squeaky shoes remain safely out of her father’s reach. 

“Nope!” Georgie sings, popping the p to be extra obnoxious. “None of that. It is Girls’ Night at Casa de Pearl, and you and Martin— being boys— are not invited.” 

“That’s very sexist.” 

“Sure is! Go away.” 

“You two only just arrived!” Jon protests, even as he dutifully pulls on his nicest oxfords. “You might give Martin and me a chance to say _hello_ to you both.” 

“Hi, Jon. Hi, Martin. Now get the hell out,” Melanie chimes, rapping her cane once, then twice on the cottage’s walls. After establishing that none of the architecture has supernaturally shifted since her last visit, she sets it aside and adds, “Pearl, tell your Daddy that his vibes are rancid.” 

“Daddy, your vibes’r rancid!” Pearl parrots, already distracted by the lustrous enchantment that is Auntie Georgie’s hair. In being so preoccupied, she misses the flat look that Daddy shoots Auntie Melanie. It hardly matters; she would not have understood it, anyway. “Love you, bye!”

“Love you, bye,” Martin echoes, chuckling, as he rounds the corner of the nursery. Tall as he is, he is able to sneak a quick kiss to Pearl’s cheek when passing Georgie. Jon sulks, short and bitter about it. “I put your jammies and an extra diaper on your bed, Poddy. Your aunties have promised to tell you a story, but don’t forget to help them feed Ensign, too. Be a good Pearly-girly for them, okay?” 

“’Kay, Papa,” Pearl says, idly nuzzling Georgie’s curls. “Bye-bye! Bye-bye, Daddy. Love you! Love you!” 

“Love you,” Jon repeats, catching the kiss that Pearl blows him. He throws his daughter one in return before Martin moves to hook their arms, leading him chivalrously down the porch steps. The impatient, disgusted noises that Melanie makes in the background are studiously ignored. “See you tomorrow, darling.”

-

The front door has barely latched shut when a sunshine-yellow one opens in the living room behind the girls. Pearl is the first to notice its appearance, of course. She always is.

“Auntie Helen!” 

“Pearl!” Helen greets in turn. “Georgie! Melanie!” The avatar’s enthusiasm is augmented by fluxes in reality, which in trying and failing and trying and failing to settle around her distortions create never-ending spirals of substance and phantasmagoria. When she grins, her cheeks curve inward, caught in continual, centripetal coils. “Looks like the boys are finally gone… You ladies ready to par-tay?” 

In answer, Melanie smirks, opening wide the babysitting bag.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> ~~When-Daddy-Isn't-Home-Meme.jpeg~~


End file.
